


No Other Way

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Dead Men Fics [1]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dreams, Gen, If Hopeless died after A Mutual Dislike of Winter, Mildly coarse language, Nonbinary Character, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23196235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: Erskine dreams about a long-dead friend. This has no impact on the course of events.
Series: Dead Men Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672435
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	No Other Way

After a long day of conferences and meetings with advisers, Erskine dreams of Hopeless. They are both in the Grand Mage’s office and shadows obscure the door. In the dream this does not feel unusual. All Erskine can hear is dripping water and the sound of their breathing. Hopeless is sitting on his desk. Their hair is long like it was when Erskine had first met them. It tumbles down their back, the colour that night had been when they had died in Prussia. Their face is lowered. They’re examining a letter in their hands, and Erskine inhales. He knows this is a dream but still his heart begins to pound.

“You grew your hair long,” he says.

Hopeless raises the letter from Madame Mist. The paper is large and the ink is still drying. Weeks before, when Erskine had burnt the real document in his hands, it had been folded up, small and unassuming. Here it is crease-less and damning. For the first time, Hopeless looks at Erskine. Their eyes are as grey as the buildings of Roarhaven.

“What the _fuck_ is this?”

“My most recent correspondence, I assume,” Erskine says.

Hopeless slams the paper onto the table, and all of Erskine’s notes go flying. He thinks wryly, _the first time I see them after their death and they’re angry with me_. He will need to pick all the papers up. Many of them are important. Some are from foreign Grand Mages, who’ll be expecting responses soon. Shortly, international diplomacy will be of less importance, but it is crucial to keep up pretenses at all times. 

Hopeless seems undisturbed by the mess. In their life, they had taken great pains to be restrained, perhaps due to the stigma of their discipline. Here all those inhibitions have fled. Their eyes don’t leave Erskine’s as they recite excerpts from the letter.

“‘I am afraid that our people do not trust you. It may be necessary to take measures to prove your loyalty. You know what I mean, I expect.’ ... Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“I cannot,” Erskine says simply, and starts to pick everything up from the floor.

“Who will it be, then?” Hopeless asks. Their tone is sharp, but level. Erskine looks up for a moment and sees that their hands are clutching the paper so tightly that the ink leaches onto their skin. He looks down again, takes a moment.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“Which of the Dead Men are you planning on murdering?”

In real life had anyone said such a thing Erskine would have had to response drastically. Not all the people working alongside him are aware of his real plans. There’s a knife perpetually under the sleeve of his jacket now. But here Erskine just avoids Hopeless’ gaze and puts the last pile of papers back on the desk. He takes a moment to straighten the pile.

“It will have to be Ghastly, I’m afraid.”

Hopeless recoils. Erskine feels something drop in his stomach, an emotion he has not felt since his friend died. He wants to reach out and hug them, but that would not be welcome. Regret twists a little in his stomach. He wishes they were really here. He wishes his best friend was alive.

“Ghastly?” Hopeless asks. Their intonation is all off. Dream-Hopeless had not, apparently, expected such a forthright response.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t be him,” Erskine admits. “Had Guild remained in power this would be significantly easier. But Ghastly’s too powerful to allow to live; he would obstruct our plans.”

Hopeless' jaw tightens. “Which are?”

“To merge magical and mortal communities.”

Hopeless frowns. “If that was truly your allies' main aim, do you really think the Dead Men would take such an issue?”

“They’ve changed since you died.” Erskine says. “They’ve become conservative in their thinking. They don’t want to take a risk like this. In their eyes, I would be committing treason.”

“You are, Erskine Ravel. You’re planning murder.”

Everything feels suddenly heavy. Erskine sits down, looks at his hands. He does not think about the man who made the clothes he's wearing.

“Yes,” he says. “I am.”

The moment twists and stretches. It feels as if time is passing swiftly, or perhaps standing still. Hopeless is still sitting there, within reaching distance. Erskine doesn’t consider touching them. Perhaps he knows instinctively that they would not be that easy to reach, even in a dream.

“I’ve always wondered,” Hopeless says. “On the battlements in Prussia, what did you want to say to me?”

Erskine frowns. For a long moment he is only confused, until he remembers. One night before the end of the war he had promised to explain to Hopeless why he was in contact with the children of the spider. At that time he hadn’t decided what was the best course of action, and the secret correspondence had felt weighty in his breast pocket. A part of him, then, had wanted to leave that miserable year behind him, to move on. That night's conversation had almost convinced him to do just that.

But within twenty-four hours Hopeless had died, shot in the chest by a rogue Energy Thrower, and a month later Larrikin had been murdered in Wales. By the end of that year, suffocating under grief and aimlessness, Erskine had written a hasty letter to Mist confirming his intention to aid their cause.

“Does it matter now?” Erskine asks.

“No,” Hopeless concedes. “I don’t suppose it does.”

They rearrange the paper on Erskine’s desk minutely.

“I suppose you wouldn’t believe me, if I told you that this would fail? That even if you go ahead and succeed, nothing that you planned will come to fruition?”

Erskine feels hollowed out, as if all his centuries alive are suddenly manifesting upon his shoulders. Slowly he shakes his head. He wishes suddenly that the Sanctuary had windows, so he could breathe fresh air.

“I am set on this course.” He says. “In any case, you were never a Sensitive.”

“No,” Hopeless says. “But I am still telling you not to do this. There are other ways to achieve your end, better ways.”

“If there were, do you not think I would have taken them?”

Hopeless’ face is still, the way it always was just before they cried. “You have been blinded by your new allies. If you took this slowly, diplomatically, you could even convince Ghastly this was a good idea.”

Erskine stills for a moment, under Hopeless’ distressed gaze. But Hopeless died long ago, and this is a dream wrought by his hyperactive fears. This isn’t real. He remembers the feeling of Warlock blood on his hands, the coldness of the persona he had worn on that mountain. It is already much too late for a more peaceful path.

“I am sorry,” he says. His tone is not one he uses with friends; he is speaking with the authority of a Grand Mage. “This is the only way.”

Erskine wakes up. He takes a moment to look at the plain plaster of the ceiling, inhales. He sits up slowly and looks out the window; the sun is shining outside. It’s a working day; the alarm will go off in fifteen minutes. Brushing aside his inhibitions, Erskine rises and dresses. He pauses a moment, looking at the slender knife on his bedside table, before he slips it into a sheath on his wrist. He had rarely used daggers in the war, preferring to rely on his magic.

Ghastly calls him when he’s on his way out the front door. Erskine answers the phone easily, a smile in his voice. 

“Erskine, you need to get into the Sanctuary as fast as possible. We have a situation.” Ghastly says, sounding frantic.

“I’m on my way,” Erskine says.

Erskine knows what the situation is from the last conversation he’d had with Mist. By the end of this day, he suspects, Ireland will be at war. Almost seventy years of planning are finally coming together. Soon the world will be radically changed. A smile edges onto his face and he locks the door behind him, pocketing the key.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was unbetaed. Any feedback is welcome!


End file.
